You think I am weak?
by Cryophase
Summary: Simply because I am without armor does not mean I am powerless.


She was coming. He could hear her shallow footsteps echo through the hall.

It was small, barely shy of a standard rifle, a bastardized compilation of alien technology. Such relics were rare, and impossible to reproduce. He alone was its wielder.

She was almost here…

Everything was perfect. The simulations had all been successful. A small army waited in the rafters to annihilate her.

THERE!

His eyes bulged with excitement as his throat let loose a lustful roar. The Hunter had arrived.

He fired. Its round was invisible, but she flinched noticeably as he hit his mark. An ear-splitting ring filled the room. The noise was nearly unbearable, so high-pitched and sharp he felt his ears would snap.

But he endured, and watched with glee as it began to take affect. The Hunter twitched and spasmed. She collapsed to her knees. Her crimson chest shimmered and for a moment became transparent. He could just barely see her frail human body beneath it.

The Hunter looked up. He could see her eyes twitch across the ceiling, across the countless soldiers drooling with excitement as they waited for her lifeline to fail her.

The process was taking far longer than he had expected. She stepped back, retreating towards the door. Her helmet glistened, turning gold and translucent, the back of her head exposed for all to see.

They began to drop down, beginning the assault. They could not wait any longer.

The Hunter fled. For the first time, they had her on the run.

He watched as the soldiers filled the hallway after her. He laughed. Even her head being exposed would be enough, and soon the rest of her armor would fail her. He looked forward to seeing her slain body atop one lucky pirate's blade. Or, perhaps several.

He was alone now, and with a dull interest walked to a terminal. He watched tracking reads blaze across a facility map, one for every soldier. When shots began flying, he would know.

Yet every pirate's rifle remained on standby. Was she really so hard to find? She had fled barely moments ago. Such incompetence would warrant a report to High Command later.

A noise from the ceiling commanded his attention. A subtle tapping, as though vermin were moving about.

Suddenly a metal grate came flying down from its hold. He barely managed to avoid being hit, and snarled with the realization that someone had thrown it.

Something blue dropped from the ceiling. He had barely a second to process it before something long and golden erupted from its hand.

He instinctively drew his rifle and took aim. The blue figure whipped its golden light forward and the pirate roared in pain. His rifle overloaded with heat and frothed with smoke. The whip retracted and left a searing wound in his arm.

Momentarily distracted, he looked back only to see that the figure had disappeared into the darkness. He looked around, frantic to find it.

No sooner did his eyes meet the stark blue creature did that horrid golden light reach out for his head. He let loose a terrible screech as the electrified whip gashed out the side of his face. Empty eye sockets steamed with energy burns as he made the mistake of turning to glimpse his opponent with his good side.

The whip came again, this time with a sickening crack. The tip lashed forward with untold speed, right into his temple.

He collapsed. He could feel nothing. Something was missing… something vital had been gouged away.

The blue figure at last came into focus. Tiny, human, so abhorrently female in shape. The pirate cringed with disgusted anger. The creature filled with golden light as a familiar orange armorsuit took its place atop it.

He reached meekly for his weapon, the only thing he could think to do. This was impossible. She was powerless without her armor, she was nothing! Surely if he removed it once more, he would have another chance. He could redeem himself. All it would take was one well-placed shot.

He fired it, again and again, but to no effect. She had done something. Her armor had changed, adapted so quickly. Seven cycles of work; wasted.

Barely one of his six eyes still worked. He looked upwards through a haze of blood to see an armored boot come crashing down upon his invention. She held it there for a moment, and he could sense the mounting pressure. She smashed it into a thousand pieces.

The last thing he saw was the glint of razor shrapnel, flying towards his one good eye.


End file.
